Charlotte's POV
Dawn crept through the rain-streaked windows of the Riverside Inn, painting everything in soft gold. I woke to the steady rhythm of Mateo's heartbeat beneath my cheek, his arm still wrapped protectively around me. For a moment, I let myself exist in this perfect bubble—no expectations, no obligations, just us.
"Bonjour, ma belle," he murmured, his voice rough with sleep and that accent that made my heart skip.
I tilted my head up to look at him, memorizing the way the morning light caught in his dark eyes. "Good morning."
He brushed a strand of hair from my face, his touch gentle. "Any regrets?"
"None," I said firmly, and meant it. "But I should get back soon. My mother will be wondering where I am."
A shadow crossed his features. "Ah, yes. The real world awaits."
I sat up, pulling the sheet around me. "Mateo, listen to me. What happened between us—this isn't just some rebellion or a phase. I'm going to talk to my mother today. I'm going to tell her about us."
His eyebrows rose. "Charlotte, you don't have to—"
"Yes, I do." I cupped his face in my hands. "I'm tired of living my life according to other people's plans. I want to choose for myself, and I choose you."
The drive back to Beverly Hills felt both too long and too short. Mateo's hand found mine at every red light, our fingers intertwining as if we could hold onto each other through sheer will. When we pulled up to the towering gates of the Morgan estate, reality crashed down like a cold wave.
"This is it," I said, suddenly nervous.
"Hey." He turned to face me fully. "Whatever happens, last night was real. You were real. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."
I kissed him then, pouring all my determination into it. "Give me three days. I'll call you as soon as I've spoken to her."
"D'accord. Three days."
But I should have known it wouldn't be that simple.
The moment I walked through the front door, I knew something was wrong. The usual bustling energy of the household staff was replaced by an eerie quiet. My heels clicked against the marble floor as I made my way toward the stairs, hoping to shower and change before facing my mother.
"Charlotte."
Her voice stopped me cold. I turned to find her standing in the doorway of her study, still in her silk robe despite it being past ten in the morning. Her perfectly coiffed hair and full makeup told me she'd been awake for hours.
"Mother. Good morning."
"Is it?" Her smile was sharp as a blade. "Come. We need to talk."
My stomach dropped, but I followed her into the study—the same room where countless family decisions had been made, where my fate had been discussed and decided without my input more times than I could count.
She gestured to the leather chair across from her mahogany desk. As I sat, I noticed several manila folders spread across the surface, along with what appeared to be architectural plans.
"I trust you had an... educational evening," she said, settling behind her desk like a queen on her throne.
"I don't know what you mean."
"The Riverside Inn. Room seven." She opened one of the folders and slid a series of photographs across the desk.
My blood turned to ice. There I was, laughing as Mateo led me up the wooden stairs. Another of us kissing by his motorcycle. One of us entering the room together.
"How—"
"Did you really think I wouldn't have you followed, darling?" Mother's voice remained perfectly pleasant, as if we were discussing the weather. "Especially after that dramatic little scene at the country club. I've been having you watched for weeks."
The room felt like it was spinning. "You had no right—"
"I had every right. You're a Morgan, Charlotte. Your actions reflect on this entire family." She picked up another folder, this one thicker. "Mateo Dubois. Twenty-eight years old. French citizen on an artist visa that expires in six months. Lives in a converted warehouse in the Arts District—which, coincidentally, is slated for redevelopment."
She opened the folder with deliberate precision, revealing documents I couldn't quite read from my angle, but the letterhead was unmistakably that of Morgan Development Corporation.
"The entire block is being demolished next month to make way for luxury condos. His little artist enclave, his home, his gallery—all of it will be gone." She looked up at me with cold satisfaction. "Unless, of course, I decide to delay the project."
"You can't do this."
"Charlotte, I'm not your enemy." Her voice softened, and for a moment she looked almost vulnerable. "Do you know I once loved a penniless painter? He took me to watch sunsets, taught me to smear paint on canvas with my fingers. I even thought about running away with him."
I stared at her, seeing something I'd never seen before—a flicker of genuine emotion in her perfectly composed features.
"But I didn't." She smiled sadly. "I chose practicality. I chose security. I chose everything you have now." She leaned forward, her eyes suddenly sharp again. "And I've never regretted it. Not once. Because I gave you a life that poor artist's daughter could never have had."
The words hit harder than any threat. "Mother—"
"But that's not all, darling. Shall we discuss his immigration status?"
She opened yet another folder. "Artist visas are so... precarious. One small issue with his application—a missing form, a question about his financial stability, perhaps some concerns about his character—and he could find himself on a plane back to Marseille within days."
The room was closing in around me. "He's done nothing wrong."
"Hasn't he?" Mother's smile was predatory. "Public indecency, perhaps? I have photographs of him kissing a clearly intoxicated young woman—you—in public. Contributing to the delinquency of a minor from a prominent family? I'm sure immigration would find that very interesting."
"I'm not a minor. And I wasn't intoxicated."
"Prove it." She stood, smoothing her robe. "It's my word against his, Charlotte. And whose word do you think carries more weight in this city?"
I felt sick. This was exactly the kind of ruthless manipulation that had shaped my entire life, but I'd never been on the receiving end of it so directly.
"What do you want?"
"What I've always wanted. For you to stop this nonsense and honor your obligations. Thomas is a good match—stable, wealthy, from the right family. The engagement will be announced next week, and the wedding will take place in six months."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then your artist friend will lose everything. His home, his visa, his livelihood. And so will everyone else in that building—there are twelve other artists living there, Charlotte. Twelve other lives you'd be destroying for the sake of a childhood infatuation."
The weight of it crashed down on me. It wasn't just about Mateo and me anymore. It was about an entire community, about lives and dreams that would be crushed simply because I'd dared to choose love over duty.
"You're evil," I whispered.
"I'm practical." She moved around the desk to stand beside me, her hand touching my shoulder with mock tenderness. "You'll thank me someday, darling. Passion fades, but security lasts forever."
The photographs blurred as tears I refused to shed burned my eyes. "There has to be another way."
"Is there?" Mother tilted her head with mock curiosity. "Perhaps you'd like to fund their relocation? Oh wait—you don't have access to your trust fund until you're married. To Thomas."
I stood abruptly, my mind racing. "What if I talked to him? Explained the situation? Maybe he'd understand—"
"And then what? You'd run away together? Live in poverty while he struggles as a failed artist?" She laughed, the sound like breaking crystal. "Darling, that's not love. That's selfishness."
"You don't know what love is," I said, but my voice wavered.
"I know what survival is. I know what it means to protect one's family." She moved closer, her voice gentling to something almost motherly. "Charlotte, I'm not the villain here. I'm protecting you from a mistake that would ruin both your lives. You think he'd be happy watching you sacrifice everything for him? You think he wants to be responsible for destroying twelve other artists' dreams?"
The words hit like physical blows. I opened my mouth to argue—to do something—but the weight of those folders on the desk felt like chains. I saw not just Mateo's future, but the lives of a dozen strangers hanging by a thread. My mother had always been ruthless. Now I realized she was also meticulous.
"I need time to think."
"Of course you do. You're a smart girl—you'll make the right choice." She gathered the folders with efficient movements. "Oh, and Charlotte? I'd advise against contacting him directly. It would be... unfortunate if he were to receive a visit from immigration officers before you've made your decision. I'm trying to protect you both from unnecessary complications."
Mateo's POV
Three days. She'd asked for three days.
I'd given her four, then five. By the sixth day, I was standing at my studio window from dawn to dusk, watching every car that turned down our street.
"Maybe her mother took her phone," I told Diego on the seventh day. "Maybe something happened to her. She's not the type to just disappear."
Diego gave me a look that was equal parts pity and concern. "Bro, maybe you should consider—"
"She said she'd call," I interrupted. "Charlotte doesn't break promises."
But even as I said it, I could hear the desperation in my own voice.
By the eighth day, I'd stopped looking out the window. By the tenth, I'd stopped checking my phone every five minutes.
It was on day eleven that Jennifer Walsh showed up with her demolition notice.
After she left, I sat in the growing darkness, pieces clicking into place like a horrible puzzle. The Morgan name. Charlotte's sudden silence. The timing of this demolition notice.
Had she known? Had she been playing me all along, gathering information for her family's business interests? The thought made me physically ill.
My phone buzzed. Finally.
"Mateo?" Her voice was flat, emotionless—nothing like the woman who'd whispered my name in the darkness of the inn.
"Charlotte. I was beginning to think—"
"Look, about the other night. I think we need to talk."
Hope flared in my chest. "Yes, absolutely. Where shall we meet?"
"No, not in person. I can say this over the phone." A pause, long enough for my heart to start racing for all the wrong reasons. "What happened between us was a mistake. I was confused, rebellious. You were... convenient."
The word hit like a slap. "Convenient?"
"You're a nice guy, Mateo, but we're from different worlds. I'm engaged to Thomas. The announcement will be in tomorrow's papers."
I couldn't breathe. "Charlotte, this isn't you talking. What's happened? What did they say to you?"
"Nothing happened. This is me making a mature decision about my future. What we had was just... physical. It didn't mean anything."
"Didn't mean anything?" I was on my feet now, pacing the small space of my studio. "Charlotte, you said you loved—"
"I said a lot of things. People say things in bed they don't mean." Her voice cracked slightly on the last word, but she pressed on. "I'm sorry if you misunderstood the situation. I thought you were more worldly than that."
Each word was a knife twist. "So that's it? One night, and now you're done?"
"That's it." A longer pause. "I wish you luck with your art, Mateo. I hope you find someone more... suitable."
The line went dead.
I stood there holding the phone, staring at the painting of the storm, understanding finally dawning. The golden light in the painting—I'd gotten it wrong. It wasn't breaking through the darkness. It was being swallowed by it.